On high a bird of prey soars o'er his nest,
And in the brook are sporting tiny trout.
From charcoal kilns the smoke clouds are ascending,
With iris-coloured hues the sun embrace,
And stately giant pines in rows unending,
Like wreaths of evergreens, the mountains grace.
A spicy hay-scent rises from the meadow,
And honest folk dwell 'neath their thatched roof's shadow.
And yet--should I now try new songs to sing,
The old accustomed tone I could not find;